Cruel neon man. How you sit,

A lighthouse crooning, a red crow

With thbthb feather

On a waving post. Stretch away


‘A dropping stomach, sir, a stomach that’s dropped.’


I will forget the bitterness of you.

The cold, whistling space

And leave my think trace.


Poetic authority.. pearl poet bubble

Burst here, oxygen peace oxygen


In bedroom comfort, bedroom kind.

Tuck your private mind


The clouds look kind, but choke.

The Good girl

The Good girl sung

And prayed in church

On every Sunday morn.

She closed her eyes

And thanked the Lord

For letting Christ be born.


And all was well

From week to week.

Her heart was full and calm.

That was, until,

The New girl came

And offered Good her palm.


Her eyes were clear,

Her cheeks were soft.

Her lips were red as blood.

The Good girl cursed

Her wicked heart

For falling fast in love.


From then, the church

Was ne’er the same.

It welcomed her no more.

The walls dripped black

And with a smack

They thrust her from its door.

Dunadd – Lois E. Linkens

My latest piece ‘Dunadd’ on FVR, written after a trip to Scotland:


The cold wind slaps across my cheek, slaps hard. 

We are at the crow’s place, the sooty fibres

Of his black-night wings are glossed with rain,

And we see it. We are Gods, beholding

The green scraps of life with scorn and reverence,

For ‘tis one’s duty to maintain the keep. 

You hold me; your black hair shudders frantic

With the breeze, like iron filings bristling

In the magnet’s approach. But you are gleeful, 

You have all you need. The wind and the salt air, 

The thought of eagles crouching not so far,

You are hope; I have seen the eagles atop the pines. 

Flighty sort, haughty, proud – with not a thought

Beyond the stomach’s growl, the rustling bush,

The sweet red gore behind the fur, the scale. 

But you – you with your coffee eyes, gentle

Hands cup my freckled skin – you have mind, and space. 


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Green Comfort

The green comfort, long deserted me,

Shrivelled ditch-ward. No young tree

Grows: I am old, squeezing out of time

And mud and heart.

I have played my part,

Shared my skin,

Pressed myself within. My dear adult bird,

The wand’ring mind,

Is never heard, and left behind.

Time – Lois E. Linkens

My piece ‘Time’ on FVR:


Tonight’s the night! And my wicked finger whistled
On it’s way out.
Moody old pillow-head grovels, snivels, wriggles;
Only a year heaven knows that’s no proper. Youth-fools. Gingerly,
Right Time peeks above the wafting fray. We’ve been pine-tree lovers, grinned at
Rings for others.
Oh, how frail my heart; she
Would to take the gentle hand, curled like a shell, of her who stayed the wait.

Lois E. Linkens

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Queenie- Lois Linkens

My piece ‘Queenie’ on SD:

Sudden Denouement Collective

White slip of night at the shore,

And the fox-eyed pebbles wink at

The cold pearl moon. The freshwater stream,

Like silver silk

Heralds the flush of the waves, the bubbling spits

Of the shallows, stones like eyes, stones like saucers,

Like griddle cakes. There comes a woman,

Without a coat, silver-wax shoulders studded

With gooseflesh. She walks,

Toward the black water and the night-worms

Hear her singing, overhead her socked feet damp

And bottoms gritty,

A soft knitted invasion.

There is a country, far beyond the stars


Her red hat

Like a herring on a line sways with her

Narrow peg shoulders

And the sea

Is tar on her woollen toes.

Lois is a poet and student from England. She is studying the literature of the Romantics and hopes their values and innovations will filter through into her own work. She is working on longer projects at present…

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Treesap – Lois E. Linkens

My piece ‘Treesap’ on FVR today:


‘A measure of Bailey’s,’ and the blue-haired

Barmaid smiles, as steam rushes from the coffee

Machine. Eyes stare back, small glasses squared

And neck fluffed under the swirled bun, sticky

Like a grey Danish, left from clipping dry

On evenings with the clippers and beauty

Compact in the bathroom mirror; dried cacti

On the windowsill. At that bar, I’ll see

Your soul rising with the steam. Sweet and high,

And the ring it left like an eclipse would

Not come off, though I baking-soda-tried.

We stopped scrubbing and drank snowballs outside

In the bright, green garden full of driftwood.

With amber necks like maple tears, we sigh.

Lois E. Linkens

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